


a life in knives

by paxlux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-26
Updated: 2011-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-19 19:25:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxlux/pseuds/paxlux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you were fifteen, you went through a phase where you wanted to see what you’d look like with a black eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a life in knives

**Author's Note:**

> Outside POV. Season 3 into Season 4-ish. AUish because I bent a few things, maybe broke them. I messed with the canonical timeline, pushed things until they fit. Could be read as Sam&Dean or Sam/Dean.

There’s a lot of blood. A lot of screaming. Some of the blood is yours. So is the screaming.

Some _thing_ is in your house, something you thought never existed and it’s after you and your parents. And your little sister.

You hear your dad firing his gun in the living room. A shatter of glass and all you can think is he shot the television.

You hide with your sister in the closet, but it finds you. It finds you. You’re dragged out, clamped crab-like around your sister so you can take the brunt. It hits you in the head, to make you let go, and God forgive you, you _do_ , your hands uncurl without your permission.

Everything blurs.

Before you pass out, you see the bodies of your parents, your little sister, and then the door is kicked in. Before you pass out, you see two men come in and they shoot the thing that should never have been alive in the first place.

When you wake, the men are still there, and – and one is carrying you in his arms. The taller one, the curling tips of his hair tickling your cheek as he runs with you over your lawn. You see your sister’s little pink-and-white Barbie car. The soccer ball goes bounding as the other man stumbles over it, kicks it.

Your field of vision whirls around like a carnival ride and your house, after all the carnage, your house is still standing. You expected that it would’ve collapsed, like your world has, like your heart has.

The one carrying you sets you on something cold, metallic, and you put your hands down for balance. Black beneath your palms. You realize you’re sitting on a car and he’s breathing hard, saying, ‘Are you okay, are you okay.’

The other one steps close and says, ‘Hey, Ruthie, you alright.’

You’re startled he knows your name until you remember him.

Two men in suits at the door with FBI badges. You answered the polite knock in your cut-offs, barefoot because you were painting your toes bluish-black; your fingernails were going to be the same color as soon as May let you have the remote to watch Mean Girls.

They wanted to speak to your father or mother and you yelled for Dad, he’s in the kitchen, you said, and you wanted to say, Is there anything I can help you with, but you’re seventeen and awkward and shy.

Agents Jones and Bonham, sir, and then their voices melded into murmurs.

The two men were asking about the strange burglaries in the area and the unfortunate death of Mrs. McGillicutty down the block. You eavesdropped until your dad called, Ruthie, can you get us some tea.

You poured four glasses of iced tea and you cart them out two at a time, two for the agents (Bonham sounds familiar), and two for you and your dad. You sat down next to Dad at the dining room table, sipping the tea, but Dad made a motion with his head and everyone stopped talking.

Then May walked in, her arms covered in marker, mostly red and orange, and she handed Dad a drawing, lookit, Daddy, I drew you a sunset, isn’t it boo-ti-ful, and she grinned, your five-year-old sister, your heart.

Dad said, Yeah, May, boo-ti-ful, I’ll show Mommy later. Ruthie, why don’t you take your sister and go watch TV.

You left with your sweating glass of tea in one hand and May’s hand in the other.

‘Sam, we gotta go,’ the man says, the one who said your name, and the tall man, Sam, says, ‘Yeah, Dean, yeah, okay.’ He reaches out, slowly, like you might bite him and you’re dazed, his hands making tunnels you can see in the air. He thumbs blood off your face and you can see his eyes are hazel, an odd color that shifts from green-brown to almost blue when he says, ‘The cops’ll be here in a minute, they’ll take care of you. We promise. You’re safe.’

‘But my family–‘ you choke and there’s already sirens wending their way towards your neighborhood and the other man, Dean, glances up, quick. He carefully helps you off the car – your limbs are moving without you, without you – and Sam fishes something out of Dean’s jacket and slips behind the wheel.

Dean crumples a piece of paper in your hand and says, ‘The cops’ll help you. We’ll check on you in the morning, got it?’

The car roars to life and the headlights flash over you both, Dean still holding your fist. His whole body lights up, his hair haloed – dark blonde, like May’s, she looks like that on summer afternoons – and he touches your ponytail.

‘You’re safe, Ruthie. You’re gonna be alright. But. This’s my number and Sam’s. You call us if you need anything. If anything happens.’ He guides you to the soft grass of the lawn and smiles grim at you. ‘You’re a survivor, kid.’

You sit in May’s Barbie car. The big black car with the shining grin of a grill drives away as the police appear at the stop sign four houses down.

The reds and blues swirl around you like a concert lightshow, and as a police officer runs towards you, you remember the men – Sam, Dean – weren’t in their FBI suits. Worn jeans, scuffed boots, weathered jackets. Like the guys down at the scrap yard.

The officer says, ‘Miss, miss, can you hear me.’

You stare at your hands. Your bluish-black fingernails.

-

You tell the police you shot the intruder. You don’t know what makes you say it, but you say it, and you wish you really had shot that psychopath, and for a moment, you believe you really did.

You hear the chief at the counter say it was a male suspect, though what you saw wasn’t a _man_ , it wasn’t even human, it had wild glowing blue eyes and long teeth and claws. Feral.

A counselor comes by to talk to you, a woman in some sort of beige outfit with a long gold chain around her neck and horrible perfume; she brings you tea and you don’t want to talk to her. You want to be adult and tell her to fuck off, but you’re seventeen and awkward and shy. You tell her instead that you just want to sleep. You say you want to sleep, please, I just wanna go to sleep, gimme some pills or something.

You don’t have family in the area, even in the state; you think you have an aunt in Pennsylvania somewhere, but you’re not entirely sure; Aunt Augusta moves all the time, something with her ex-husband. Your grandparents are dead. Your mom was adopted.

They can’t leave you at the station. You don’t want to go with strangers.

The chief frowns. Randomly, they put you in the Lazy Inn Motel, the only motel in town. It’s a small brick building with about ten rooms and graffiti on the back end that Ethel, the owner, is always having blasted away. You might’ve been there before, to graffiti, to smoke, to make out with Cole.

You’re in the room closest to Ethel, but you don’t care because when the police pull into the parking lot, you see it.

The big black car with the shining grin grill. One other car in the lot, some little white junk heap, and as the two officers sent with you check out your room for whatever, boogeymen, you’re not sure anymore, you talk to Ethel.

You crumple your face like you might cry and say, ‘Who else’s staying here. How close are they to me. I don’t, I don’t want people around.’

She shushes you, hand on your head, crooning to you. ‘It’s alright, Ruthie, everything’ll be okay, we’ll keep you safe. Snug as a bug in a rug. There’s a couple down in 4 and two men down in 10. So you’ve got some space. You’ll be okay. There’ll be a policeman in the room next to you, and two outside in the squad car, and I’m here in the office. We’ll take good care of you, dearie.’

You nod and go to your room and take a shower.

You’re in there for an hour, which surprises you when you check the clock. Time doesn’t seem to matter. There’s a knock on the door and a cop says, ‘You want a pizza or anything?’

No, you’re not hungry. No, you’re fine. No, you think you’ll just watch a little TV and go to bed.

You flick on the TV. You crawl onto the bed and cry. You miss your parents; they’re your parents. But you really miss May. She was your sunshine, as you told her over and over. You let go. You let her die. You should’ve died instead. You don’t have a sun.

You don’t have a heart.

-

The clock is red. Around two, you leave the TV on, volume up loud enough, and you peek through the curtains at the cop car. One cop is reading a newspaper by the dome light. The other is – you strain to see in the dark, those stupid orange lights in the parking lot – the other is wandering over by the fence. He’s smoking, you can see the bob and flare of his cigarette and he’s talking on his cell phone.

You look at your room. Your mom always said Ethel needed to desperately redecorate. The wallpaper is hideous. The bedspread clashes with huge begonias and roses in an overblown pattern. The lamp is heavy, ceramic, something like a milk can. You want to smash it. Instead you pick up the phone and find the piece of paper in your pocket – you don’t have any other clothes, your cut-offs are splashed as if you’d spilled your nail polish.

Maybe you did. You’re not sure what happened tonight.

But you have two numbers in your hand. That’s all you have left.

You dial one, Dean’s, the name written in printed capitals.

He answers, voice deeper than you remember. ‘Hello?’

‘In five minutes, open your door,’ you say. ‘I wanna talk.’

‘Who is – Ruthie?’

You hang up. You watch the clock. Four minutes later, you peek out the curtains. Newspaper cop is still engrossed; the smoker is still on the phone, stamping out his cigarette.

You slip out the door – you’re thin, you look like a foal, your dad says, used to say, all arms and legs, and your mom would thwack him, she’ll grow into it, Don, don’t be mean.

You’re barefoot and the sidewalk is cold and you step on a few rocks. But you don’t care.

You don’t look back.

Dean yanks the door open before you can knock up under the brass numbers 10, and his eyes are wide. They’re green, a color you’ve never seen in a pair of eyes.

‘Get in, before they see you,’ he says harshly and you scoot in.

Sam’s sitting on the edge of a bed, his bed you guess, and he gives a little wave. As if he didn’t kill that thing in your house and carry you like you were a balloon.

He opens his mouth to say something, but you beat him to it.

‘You didn’t save my sister,’ you say. ‘She – she was my baby, she was my _sister_ ,’ you say, but you can’t get the words out, you don’t know how to make them _understand_ , you were twelve when she was born and the day your parents brought her home, you knew she was a gift to you. Yours. You were trying to be a gift to her.

‘She was my sister,’ is all you can say. ‘I need her back, I need to get her back.’

You don’t realize you’re crying until Sam has you by the elbows, to help you sit down, and you see water falling on his arms.

They don’t give you the bullshit platitudes, yes, _bullshit_ ; they don’t really say anything. You’re mad that you’re crying, but they just share a look and Dean gives you the Kleenex box.

Sam has moved to sit with you, hands out like you might fall over and he’ll catch you, again, and Dean stands, a hand rubbing at his mouth.

‘We are _so_ sorry, Ruthie, so very sorry,’ Sam says, and he means it, his eyes changing colors and you thought it was just a trick of the light and your shock, but it’s not and you can see the sincerity.

Dean says, ‘Sam’s my little brother. I know what you.’ He stops talking when Sam looks at him and there’s something, a mirror like your grief, but this is alive, this is a grief that hasn’t gone away, and you hope your grief will live like that. A flame to keep you warm.

‘You aren’t FBI,’ you say before you mean to say it and they shake their heads in unison. ‘You kill things, like…like…’

‘That was a werewolf,’ Dean says and Sam hisses, ‘ _Dean,_ ’ and Dean puts his hands on hips, says, ‘She deserves to know, Sammy, her whole life’s different now.’

Your world goes as dark as your nail polish. You wiggle your toes. ‘There’s more stuff out there,’ you say, a truth you suddenly know like your heartbeat, and they nod, in unison again, it’s an odd sight.

You have nothing. You are nothing. You have no heart.

‘I’m coming with you.’

They say, ‘ _No._ ’

In unison.

-

It’s ticking close to four in the morning. You’ve been sitting in their room for almost two hours now and your proximity to two grown men has made you nervous. You aren’t like this. You don’t do this.

You _didn’t_ do this. Now you do. Because you’ve become someone else.

Dean repeats, ‘Absolutely not,’ pointing a finger at you, as if he’s the one in charge here and you don’t know their ages, but he does certainly act like he’s the oldest by a bit. Especially with how Sam’s eyes follow him around the room. When you really watch them, you can see a resemblance and the way they move around each other, keep trading looks at your every insistence and how you say the word "revenge." You cradle it.

‘Ruthie, the werewolf’s dead,’ Sam says, ‘you can’t get revenge on something that’s dead.’ It sounds stupid, it really does, and Dean snorts like he knows what you’re thinking, but Sam’s trying to out-logic you, reason with you and you’re past that, you left those warning signs behind you.

‘But there are _more_ out there. There’s… _things_. That deserve to die,’ you say and Dean nods, rolling his eyes sarcastically, _yeah, we know_ , but he doesn’t know what you want.

You mean it, you feel like your mouth is turning red because this isn’t a movie, things in the world deserve to die and you want to give it to them. You hadn’t chosen a college yet because you weren’t sure, but this, this you’re sure about. You choose this.

‘Tell me,’ you say, bold, and you know this feeling, the adrenaline, you have it before you take a test. ‘Tell me. I wanna hear your stories. War stories.’ You noticed the light silver scar on Dean’s forehead an hour ago, when he handed you a cup of instant coffee, and you figure there’s plenty more, wherever that one came from. The one in his eyebrow. And Sam keeps pushing knuckles into his lower back, like it aches.

You want to be scarred. You came out of the massacre tonight without a scratch except for a bloody cut over your eye and tiny glass cuts on your arms. And the hole under your ribs. You feel it sucking all your blood in, like a whirlpool.

You want to be able to look at your body and see how many times you’ve survived and the other bastard didn’t.

Dean shakes his head, pacing away, rubbing at his jaw, and Sam’s expression is heavy concern. His hands fist on his knees.

‘The werewolf…in your house,’ Sam says, ‘I once. I liked a girl who was a werewolf.’ Dean stops pacing.

The shock comes back to you in a wave of cold.

‘She… _became_ a werewolf. It wasn’t her fault.’

‘And,’ you mumble, tongue frozen.

‘I killed her,’ Sam says, looking you straight in the eye and Dean sighs, hard, like it takes all his breath.

‘War stories, eh. Sam and I are orphans. Like you, Ruthie,’ Dean says, but you can tell he doesn’t want to tell you. ‘A demon killed ‘em.’

‘Demon.’ You think you can believe it; you can believe anything. Maybe the world is flat too. Your shock is warming, threading through you like water, and you’re surprised to discover you like it.

‘And Sam died – _almost_ died,’ he continues though you catch something in Sam’s face that’s crooked, sad, ‘trying to kill that demon. So we get it. We understand. You want revenge. You wanna kill something. You don’t have anyone else and you don’t care. Oh, trust me, we get it.’ He hunkers down beside you and you lean back because there’s something about Dean, he walks like Cole’s best friend Aaron does, cocky, self-assured, like he knows something everyone else doesn’t and he’s the king of the school (the big man on campus, your mom once said; she doesn’t – didn’t like Cole or Aaron), he talks as if everything’s a big joke that he’s in on, funny, laugh it up, but suddenly, Dean’s _serious_ , next to you, as sincere as his brother though it doesn’t show as well on him.

You’re seventeen and awkward and shy; you see a lot of things. You always have; my sensitive little girl, my little observer, the people-watcher, your mom says (said). Being on the outside does that.

You’re even further on the outside now, watching Dean watch you and he says, ‘But you don’t wanna do _this_. You don’t need this. You didn’t do anything to deserve what you got.’

Sam makes a noise in the back of his throat and you glance at him.

You’ve never seen a look like that on a person. Not in all the movies you’ve seen or books you’ve cried through. A crazy, messed-up mixture, so many emotions, you can’t pick them all out. It’s too much, all directed at Dean, who can’t see it, and it’s amazing. You shiver and wiggle your toes again.

They might understand, but they don’t understand.

‘If you don’t take me with you, I’ll scream and tell the cops you’re trying to kidnap me,’ you say, narrowing your eyes. You’re stubborn, as a mule, you get that from your mom, your dad claimed, and May was stubborn too.

Dean narrows his eyes in response, green slits like knives. He’s going to wait you out.

Sam says, ‘Ruthie.’

You take a breath and open your mouth.

-

When you were fifteen, you went through a phase where you wanted to see what you’d look like with a black eye.

May was three and she found Mom’s liquid eyeliner and painted you with a black eye. Then she did the other one. You looked like a laughing raccoon. You connected the two black circles where your eyes used to be and made it into a mask. Then you chased your sister all over the house; you were the eeeeeeevil villain muhahahaha! and she was the superhero with a purple blanket cape who shot laser beams out of her fingers. In the end, she killed you in a dramatic scene on the staircase and she covered you with her cape.

Now you just have a black eye, a swelling bruise that hurts when your face moves. You don’t smile much anymore, but you can scowl. You still want to see how you look with your new black eye.

‘You’re built like Sam was when he was your age,’ Dean says, then he looks spooked, peering at you as if you’re a bug from where you’re sprawled on the ground. ‘Wait, how old are you anyway? Fifteen, sixteen?’

‘Seventeen,’ you spit and you taste blood and you move to kick his feet out from under him. He laughs and simply steps back out of your reach.

‘Okay, he was a bit more,’ Dean makes a weird spread hand gesture indicating width, ‘into his frame by seventeen, but you’re like him. All limbs. He was like some sorta windmill. Surprised he never landed on his head sometimes, the way he’d flail about. Some hunts, I’d get more injuries from him than from whatever we were hunting.’

It should hurt; you’re a girl, you have hips and boobs, big enough thank you _very_ much, but you know what he means. You run into things. Sometimes your limbs move without your control. But he’s not going to get away with saying that.

You get your chance when Sam says, ‘Y’know, I’m sitting _right here_. Right here. Broad daylight.’

Dean turns to make some smart remark (his remarks are all smart remarks, you’ve found out) to Sam who’s perched on the hood of the car, and you quietly crawl behind him, until you’re standing, then you plow into him, shoulder-first. Dean stumbles and you chase, hooking a foot around his ankle and you pull, but not hard enough. He reorients, catching you, and you elbow him in the chest.

You had friends who were football players; you know how to use shoulders and elbows and Dean cusses, ‘Sonuva _bitch,_ ’ and Sam’s laughing, this overflowing sound; you haven’t laughed in a while and so you listen to him laugh, let him laugh for you.

‘She almost got you, Dean,’ he says, smirking, giving you a thumbs up.

You kick your heel into Dean’s shin and he flattens your arms to your chest harder, almost squeezing your air out, before hefting you off the ground. ‘Think that’s enough training for today,’ he grunts as you struggle and you feel him spit your hair out of his mouth as he talks, so you give him one more shove for good measure and he lets go.

You ache from where he tossed you into the dirt earlier; your forearms have blocking bruises turning blue; your eye hurts; you’ve got one big bruised scrape across the front of both thighs where you hit a fallen log and even Dean winced as Sam said, Oh _shit_ , Ruthie, you okay, that was – _bad_ , alright, that’s it, I’m done for the day, let’s call it quits. Sam’s so much bigger than you, but you had his arm twisted and maybe he was going easy on you until he let loose and you spun flying, feet scrambling, into the tree.

So you took a breather and then tried to punch Dean and you learned right fast about blocking, but not fast enough, because your eye hurts.

It’s been three weeks and four states since you left your family in a cemetery. You said you wanted to know everything. Sam looked at Dean and Dean looked at Sam before he said (to Sam), This is a real bad idea, and Sam said, You’re telling me, and Dean said, Y’know, Dad always said if one or both of us’d been girls, he’d’ve made doubly sure we could’ve kicked ass.

Their dad, the dead Marine, they hardly mention him. But that seemed to settle it and at a diner, Sam sat next to you, pushing lettuce around and muttered, Two grown men and _a teenager_. It already looks weird. It’s gonna look like we’re abusing her.

And Dean smiled around his messy fries, That’s ‘cause we’re gonna.

That time you laughed. That was three weeks and four states ago.

-

Sam’s still afraid to come close to hitting you or even fake-hitting you. ‘Dude. She’s a girl. Ruthie is a girl.’

‘Don’t think you gotta tell her that. She might kinda already know how she works.’ Dean pauses and mumbles, If she doesn’t I’m not havin’ that talk again, and Sam smirks.

‘Sides, Sammy, _you’re_ a girl. So you _can_ hit her.’

Sam glares at Dean and Dean grins big at Sam and this is the norm you’ve discovered: you might as well be on Mars for all they know you’re there. You’re becoming used to it. They have their own language.

You started to with May; for a long time, she called you Reeeeee. You love your baby sister; you miss her like you’re missing half your body; you don’t have a heart.

And these two, they’re like you, but maybe more so. They always look for each other, wherever the three of you are; the words they use the most are _Dean, Sam, I, we_. When Sam’s half-asleep in the car, Dean’s hand slides into Sam’s hair at the nape of his neck and you can _see_ it as Sam relaxes into sleep. You catch Sam watching Dean, his eyes saying so many things you can’t follow, but there’s a lot of affection, sadness and something that might be possessiveness; you aren’t sure anymore with the two of them. They own each other, somehow.

Hindsight’s 20/20. You get it. You would’ve held onto May as long as you could’ve. If things were different. (Woulda, coulda, shoulda. You let go, _you let go_ , and now here you are.)

They don’t talk much about their past (they don’t ask about yours either though they’re part of it), but you think they’ve been orphans for a long time; they’ve only had each other for a long time.

They’ve got each other. You don’t have anyone.

This is your fight and you’re ready to learn.

You can’t goad Sam into fighting with you, but you can annoy Dean half to death and he won’t take a swipe at you until you take a swing.

You know they’re holding back with you, they both are, but you still learn, you soak up everything you can. They’re good teachers: Dean’s a better shot, but Sam’s more fluid; Sam better than Dean with words, as if he’s expounding on stuff he’s heard; Dean with actions, as if he’s learned first-hand and out of necessity.

You kind of see it because you were teaching May everything you could, every day. You taught her how to swim, a hand underneath her little floating body. You were about to teach her how to ride a bike, a pink one with a white basket and tassels hanging off the handlebars. It was hidden in the garage.

Now you know what blood tastes like going down your throat. You know what a gunshot sounds like up close and you feel the kickback. You like guns, but you prefer knives and Sam teaches you those. Dean whines about it, ‘Aw, Sammy, you know she can kill something from farther away with a gun. Ruthie, c'mon now, you really want to _throw knives_.’ He’s skeptical. ‘We aren’t ninjas. Well, _I_ am, but—‘

‘Dean, shut up.’ Sam crosses his arms, exasperated.

‘How 'bout I wound it with a gun, then slit its throat,’ you say. Sam's eyebrows shoot up and Dean purses his lips.

‘Yeah, that'd work. Sorta. Sometimes. I still think you could just shoot it and be done. Quicker,’ Dean says, pulling an imaginary six-shooter from a holster at his hip, all gunslinger.

‘Yeah, Yosemite Sam, thanks for that,’ Sam says, leading you away from his brother.

‘Whaaaat. Don't be like that!’

Dean still insists you learn your way around a gun – you do like the heft and size of a shotgun – and makes you help clean the guns besides sharpening the knives and the two of you end up watching Dr. Sexy when Sam isn’t in the room. Dean makes sure to have the remote handy.

You keep his secret. You’re not sure why. It’d be great ammunition.

But you do.

-

Your first hunt isn’t supposed to be your first hunt. They’ve sort of stopped hunting ever since you crawled into the backseat, pushing aside a few food wrappers in the dead of night; you eavesdrop when someone calls, Bobby – Dean manages to look a little guilty, licking his lips, and he says they need to hold off for a little while, but he doesn’t mention you and then Sam takes the phone away, talking (Hey, Bobby, yeah, I know he’s acting weird, but it’s Dean, y’know) as he walks outside.

One morning, you’re cutting into your eggs (you like to stab the yolks first and have them soak everything else) when you see Dean outside in the parking lot waving a folded newspaper at Sam who’s messing with something in the trunk. You’d seen Dean earlier, circling things with a red Sharpie, tongue between his teeth. He shows it to Sam and they talk the way they always do, with their hands, and it looks like it might be a stand-off, this is almost better than TV as you soak your toast in the yolk.

You wish you could read lips.

Dean holds up an insistent hand: four fingers. And Sam holds up one finger: pointing at the diner, at you. You want to duck in the seat, but you’re not doing anything wrong, just eating your breakfast, tralalalala.

Rolling his head, Dean stares at the sky, arms out, like he’s talking to God, Lord save me from this idiot, you’ve seen that stance before. Then he’s talking fast at Sam before pointing at you too and you really do duck a little in the seat, almost spilling your coffee – you’re getting used to the flavor, black, like Dean drinks it, sugar and creamer just muck it up; for some reason, Dean thinks that’s really freaking funny, he said, Stick with _me_ , kiddo, don’t listen to Sammy, and Sam grumbled something about child corruption and hemlock.

But as you’re swiping coffee off your chin (damn, it’s hot), the “discussion” in the parking lot is gathering steam until Sam grabs Dean by the shoulder, palm slipping to Dean’s neck and Dean stops talking immediately. It’s the most effective thing you’ve seen; Sam can stop Dean just by touching him, like a weird Vulcan nerve pinch. (You almost started a fight by saying that Spock could kick Kirk’s ass, and somehow that devolved into a discussion about Star Wars and whether Star Destroyers were bigger than Constitution class Federation starships. And you said _ass_ and _shit_ and later called someone a _fucking douchebag_ ; your language is deteriorating rapidly and you’re proud.)

Then, while you almost drip egg everywhere, Sam says something and Dean nods, and they cradle fists; you laugh to yourself because they rock-paper-scissors like fourth graders. Dean throws scissors. Sam wins with rock. He reaches out, like he’s going to pat Dean on the head, but Dean dodges him, flipping him off.

They come into the diner and you’re studiously eating your bacon; you used to fear for your bacon, but they only steal from each other. They sit down, heavily, like they do a lot of things, as if they’re too big for this world, and Dean tosses the newspaper onto the table.

‘Ruthie, we’ve got us a hunt,’ he says, all happy-like, as if he’s got tickets to the circus and Sam sighs, says, ‘But _we_ wanted to ask you first if you feel comfortable doing this.’

You pretend to mull it over. ‘What is it.’

‘Salt-n-burn,’ they say in unison and you still haven’t gotten used to that.

‘Ghost,’ you say and they nod (in unison). They sit across from you, next to each other; in the early days, Sam would sit with you, like he was shielding you, but then Dean made a crack about jailbait and age of consent and Sam looked horrified (no offense, Ruthie, he said, embarrassed, Dean doesn’t know when to shut his mouth; I only speak the truth, Dean said, crossing his heart as if he was May’s age).

You knew you were going to do it when Dean said the word “hunt.”

‘Sure, let’s go torch it.’

‘The lady said we can go torch it, Sam,’ Dean says, a hand up, _music to my ears_ , and Sam elbows him.

You understand that this first hunt isn’t supposed to be your first hunt because as much as they’re teaching you, they’re still sheltering you and you don’t know whether to be insulted or grateful. This is the line and you’re about to cross it.

And you do: by helping dig six feet down.

Sam’s standing lookout and Dean’s helping you dig and it’s hard freaking work; you gardened with Mom, but that was like eating grapefruit with a grapefruit spoon compared to this.

‘C’mon, Dean, this isn’t a child labor camp,’ Sam says above you, somewhere out of sight, and Dean snorts, says, ‘She can handle it. She needs to get used to it. ‘Sides, I’m not ready for –‘

‘Down!’ Sam yells and there’s a shotgun blast.

 _Fuck_ , it’s loud and you think the earth is going to collapse on you, but Dean growls, ‘Keep digging. The faster we get to it, the faster we get outta here.’

You dig and dig and dig and Sam shoots and at one point, you hear the clicking of him reloading, then a startled yell and Dean’s clambering out of the grave, ‘Sam! Sammy!’ His face reappears over you, eyes angry, as he says, ‘You stay here. Yell when you reach it.’

“It” is the coffin and you’re morbidly fascinated to reach it. You didn’t stay for your family’s funeral; you let Ethel handle the arrangements the day after you talked to Sam and Dean (threatened, Dean said; coerced, Sam said; fucking blackmailed, Dean said) and then that night, you climbed into that cherry Chevy and disappeared. Now you’re here in a grave, digging as fast as you can. It doesn’t take long; you’re counting gunshots and heartbeats when you hit the coffin lid hard and you yell, ‘Found it!’

You jump to try to see what’s going on and Sam slides over the wet cemetery grass almost on his stomach, better than a baseball player, and he reaches a hand down to swing you out of the ground (he’s built like a freaking monster mountain tree thing and you’re still a balloon), then he gives you his shotgun, a handful of salt shells, and drops in to crack the coffin.

Dean’s busy keeping the spirit away from you, Sam and the grave, but at one point, the spirit rushes you, snarling face, the mouth stretched inhumanly wide, wisps of hair streaming and you think you saw this on the cover of a DVD once, then you shoot salt into its neck. It dissolves and you can breathe and then Sam’s clambering out beside you to take the gun. Salt, lighter fluid, matches.

You see the spirit go up in flames as it’s yowling at Dean.

All you can do is remember to brush off as much dirt as you can before you get in the car. Your brain is a gibbering mess and your hands won’t stop shaking. Sam takes them in his, rubbing as if you’re cold, and he says, ‘Adrenaline. You’ll get used to it. Hell, I think Dean’s _addicted_ to it.’

At the motel with the yellow leaf theme (Ethel isn’t the only one in the _country_ who desperately needs to redecorate), Dean beelines to the shower and Sam pounds on the door, ‘What a fucking gentleman you are, Dean, you gonna let the lady suffer.’

And you realize you must look like shit, dirt everywhere; you can feel it in your bra, maybe down your jeans; your boots are filthy. (One of the first things they did was buy you a pair of heavy-duty boots. You picked them out, made sure they were kosher, and Dean flashed a credit card, _Wil E. Kyote_. They’re cute, if you do say so yourself, black and comfy, but you aren’t barefoot anymore. Your nail polish chipped away fast.)

Sam frowns, ready to apologize on behalf of his brother like it’s second nature, but they let you have first shower for a couple of weeks at the beginning and that was good enough. You don’t need special treatment.

When you get in the shower, you try to make it snappy, because hot water for the three of you (and the two of them are big hulking guys) goes quicker than pissing in a bottomless bucket (you learn new things every day). You like to change in the bathroom, easier for everyone and you like the feel of steam inside your clothes.

You step out and Sam’s crashed asleep on his bed. Dean’s in his regular t-shirt and boxers, that gold little head resting on his chest like always, and he’s busy reading.

‘Should I wake him,’ you ask and Dean says, ‘Nah, he’ll survive. He wasn’t doing all the damn digging.’

‘Damn straight,’ you say and Dean laughs and you get into your blanket nest on the couch. The couches aren’t always the best, but you’ve been able to sleep almost anywhere since you were a baby (you used to fall out of bed and not wake up). You watch Dean read and you’re not surprised he’s a bit of a bookworm, though Sam’s a bigger (bigger) one, but if they’ve really been traveling all their lives, you figure the only things they had were road trip games (which can suck, driving to Disney World when May was four was no freaking picnic) and books.

You’re almost asleep when you hear a noise, distressed, and your eyes fly open in time to see Dean shoot up off his bed. Sam’s having a nightmare, hands fisting into the pillow and comforter and Dean kneels on the mattress next to him without a word. He puts his palm to Sam’s forehead and Sam makes a sound, then Dean’s brushing his brother’s hair off his temples, soothing fingers down his cheek, along his jaw, and Sam calms, quiets, goes on sleeping.

You couldn’t break May out of her nightmares; all you could do was hold her hand.

-

They’re never your brothers to the strangers who cross your path; they’re your cousins; you’re not offended, it’s just another idiosyncrasy.

You’re not sure when you stopped thinking in terms of _Sam_ or _Dean_ , but in terms of _they_ or _them_. A single unit. As if they’re one person in two bodies.

You’re reminded you don’t have a heart. You wonder what it’s like for them. They touch like they won’t be _real_ unless they’ve got a hand, a knee, a foot pressed up against the other.

And you aren’t blind. You know they’re closer than close, smashed together tight, like two cars you saw once in a head-on collision; you couldn’t tell the two cars apart.

They’ve seen some weird shit and probably survived it too. You can believe it; you can believe anything. Hey, even toilet water swirls the opposite direction in the Southern Hemisphere.

And you aren’t _blind_ ; you’ve got eyes. The Winchesters (you didn’t say oh, like the gun; you weren’t talking much at that time, so you made a POW sound, an imaginary rifle in your hands and they smiled; you later explained your dad hunted ‘legal’ prey, so you know; after that, talking about guns, you said what about Smith & Wesson and Sam joked, They aren’t related), those damn Winchesters are two of the most gorgeous men you’ve ever seen and they’re _brothers_. Holy hot sauce on a hot tamale, you get it. They’re both like every wet dream you’ve ever wanted to have; you are so _proud_ when you make Dean laugh, when you got to see Sam’s dimples.

You see how people react to them. And your eighteenth birthday is a week away now, but there is no way in heaven or earth, Horatio, that you’re going to remotely toe that line.

Dean flirts with waitresses and Sam scowls and bitchfaces, and you think you know something that maybe they don’t, like maybe _they’re_ blind, but whatever, you know they’re too old for you and you don’t want to be the outsider even if you had an in. There isn’t enough space in anything else with two crashed cars. At that accident you saw (that feels so long ago), the only thing that broke those cars apart was really, really heavy machinery.

It’s still frustrating; you’re seventeen-almost-eighteen and you’re not a virgin (Cole can suck your dick) and you’ve got hormones. You take care of yourself in the shower and that’s good enough because: no and no and no.

Besides, you kind of like not worrying about any of that. That was your old life: who likes you, who doesn’t like you, who only wants to fuck you, who thinks you stole their boyfriend. Maybe you like girls too.

Out getting coffee, Sam drops you at the drug store whenever you need tampons and Dean jokes, ‘Didja get a box for Samantha? He needs the ultra absorbent ones.’ Sam flips him off and Dean returns it and Sam opens his mouth to call Dean a string of somethings and you sit back to watch the show.

This is your life now.

Sam turns to you in the car one day, arm slung along the top of the seat, knuckles curled against Dean’s shoulder, and says, ‘You _sure_ you wanna do this, Ruthie. You should find a nice guy –‘

‘No,’ you say before he can keep talking, and Dean swats at Sam. ‘C’mon, man, you sound like – well, you didn’t want – you still could after all this –‘

‘ _Shut up, Dean,_ ’ Sam growls, and you’ve only heard that tone in his voice a few times, dangerous and hard; you stopped underestimating Sam and his floppy hair and color-changing, puppy dog eyes many, many moons ago.

Sam’s suggesting you leave this life before you really get started in it. You can’t picture it; you only remember your life before this in your memories of May. You know they don’t want you hunting; not because you’re a girl – they’ve mentioned a girl named Jo, you remind them of Jo, though you’re younger than her. ‘She’s a girl hunter,’ Dean says, then he crooks his mouth, ‘wait, that sounds funny. She’s a –‘

‘Hunter of the female gender,’ Sam finishes, hitting Dean in the chest, and Dean says cheerfully, ‘Hey, thanks, Professor, fuck you.’

Dean looks at you like you’ve lost something and one day while Sam’s at the library, he’s cleaning the guns across from you and he says in a dark voice, ‘We were born to this. You weren’t.’ You wait a minute, then go back to your book (the werewolves in it are _wrong_ and you want to throw the book across the room) and that’s all he says.

It’s your choice. They won’t leave you.

You’ll leave them.

-

You know how they make money. You like the credit card fraud, making up names, running up the bills, then ditching them, like old aliases or personalities you don’t need anymore. Like shedding a piece of you. It’s appealing.

And you know about the pool hustling. You managed to get into a bar with them once and they immediately seemed uncomfortable, Sam saying, This’s not good, and Dean said, A real fucking bad idea; they drink alcohol like it’s Coke, so you know it was because you were there. You only got in because there wasn’t a bouncer. An absolute shithole, now you know what one looks like, and they installed the three of you in a hidden back booth by the pool tables and Dean said, You’ve got your balisong, right, and you nodded; it was pressing against your spine. I’ve got a knife in my boot too, you said, and Sam grinned, Damn, Dean, we’ve taught her too well.

You drank Coke and watched them hustle the locals and it was one of the most magnificent things you’ve seen. They play pool like it’s all instinct and your dad taught you how to play, but nothing like this; they make every shot, even the misses, look easy. And they fleeced those clueless sheep; Dean acting like a larger-than-life cocky son of a bitch (well, cockier than usual) and Sam being all innocent and “lucky.” It was a wondrous sight to behold and you’re the lucky one. You’ve become ruthless and you don’t know when it happened.

It’s your birthday suddenly; you’re eighteen and you don’t say anything until Sam catches you brushing your hair, singing happy birthday to yourself under your breath.

‘Holy shit, Ruthie, it’s your _birthday_?’ he asks as if they’ve made a horrible, horrible mistake and you shrug, nod.

‘Yup, eighteen,’ you say, ‘look, I’m an adult.’ You’ve graduated up a few hunts, to darker and fiercer things, and you feel like this is better than high school graduation. Throw your cap in the air.

Sam’s expression is wide-eyed urgent and he grabs the keys, calling over his shoulder, ‘Tell Dean I’ll be right back.’ As if Dean won’t ask.

They’re always running off. You shrug. Sure enough, Dean gets out of the shower and says good morning as if it’s anything but and then says, ‘Where’s Sam.’

‘He ran off. Be right back.’

He shrugs and you shrug again. He turns on the TV and you watch with him, stupid morning news stuff until he finds Tremors, just starting, because obviously Tremors is so awesome, it plays at all times of the day. Sam reappears as the graboid pulls the car underground, and he’s got a cupcake slathered in blue icing and a leather bundle.

‘Aww, Sam, you shouldn’t have,’ Dean says, pulling a boot on and Sam protects the cupcake with his big hands, ‘Shut up, fucker, this isn’t for you. It’s Ruthie’s birthday.’

Dean smiles. ‘Well, happy birthday! Sorry, if we’d known, we could’ve gotten you a stripper. Hey, it’s only 10, there’s still plenty of time –‘

‘Dean, stop talking,’ Sam says, handing you the cupcake and the bundle. ‘Sorry, short notice and all.’

The bundle holds knives. Actual proper weapons. Knives of all sizes and a nice set of throwing knives. Some of the little leather loops are empty and Sam points to them, ‘You can fill ‘em up. Plenty of gun stores carry knives,’ and you know where he disappeared to in such a hurry. He got you birthday presents. Randomly, it’s all you can do not to cry. _Dammit._

‘There weren’t any sickles, but you’ll wanna get one of those too. These are a little used, but they’re good quality,’ he says, drawing a finger along the biggest blade and Dean’s grinning (larger-than-life) at his brother. ‘These oughta do a good amount of damage.’

‘Until you can get to your gun and shoot it,’ Dean says. You and Sam look at him and he shakes out his shoulders with a boyish smirk, hands in his pockets. ‘What. It’s true.’

‘She doesn’t have a gun,’ Sam points out, glaring at Dean (it’s almost his default mode) and Dean says, ‘We’ll hafta rectify that obviously pitiful situation.’

‘Such _big words_ so early in the morning.’

‘Bitch.’

‘Jerk,’ Sam says, then he turns to you, rolling his eyes. ‘Happy birthday, Ruthie.’

‘Thanks,’ you say and you’re smiling. You eat the cupcake and your teeth are blue and Dean cracks awful, _awful_ jokes until you’re honest-to-God laughing.

‘See, Sam, _someone_ likes ‘em.’

‘She doesn’t have to live with you 24/7.’

(They won’t leave you; you’ll leave them.)

At lunch, Dean orders everyone celebratory pie, cherry, and he’s singing Warrant (you recognize it now; you're picking up music faster than anything else it seems, even though Sam says you don't have to listen to it and Dean turns up the volume; after a lengthy discussion, you realize where Jones and Bonham are from and you laugh) and then he oddly hustles you and Sam off to the library. He grabs Sam by the arm and says something you can’t hear and Sam laughs, then pauses, saying, ‘Oh, you’re serious,’ and Dean thwacks him.

The whole afternoon is spent at the library, Sam making a list of possible hunts, quietly on the phone with Bobby (who might or might not know about you now; you saw Dean one night, wincing at his phone, saying, What were we supposed to do) and drifting through archaic-looking books with all sorts of symbols you’ve learned are powerful, woodcuts with images of what look gargantuan doors made of bone and giant fire-breathing dogs. You do the crossword, the Sudoku, the anagrams, read the funnies, look over the possibilities Sam’s circled, then you give up and find a book. You don’t eavesdrop when Sam dials Bobby again and talks in a low tone about breaking something. (You’ve never even broken a bone.)

When Dean finally comes to pick you and Sam up, he rushes to the motel room and says, ‘Pack up, we gotta go.’ You’re shoving things into your duffel (Army surplus, you inked your name on the side with a big fat Sharpie and you put a heart with May’s name on it dotting the I) and you’re almost out the door when you realize…everything’s missing.

The lamp. The phone. The pillows. The television. The mini-fridge in the “kitchen” area. You’d bet good money the towels are gone. The place has been quietly robbed.

You fold yourself into the back of the Chevy with your duffel and there’s a handgun and a box of ammo on the seat. Dean peels out, squealing the tires and says, ‘That’s yours. Happy birthday.’

He hands a roll of bills to Sam as the car passes out of town. Sam shifts, absentmindedly rests his arm on the seat, his fingers around the back of Dean’s neck, his thumb rubbing and Dean flips on the radio. You watch the town trickle by in a row of stores. The sign over the pawnshop is a weird broken yellow color and the light washes over you: Dean stripped the room, pawned anything of possible worth. To buy you a birthday gun and ammo.

You grab a hoodie out of your bag and cry into it so they won’t hear you.

-

The hunt is a werewolf, your first – no, second werewolf, the first one you get to _hunt and kill_. And this isn’t some crazy hunting sport; you don’t get last bullet, but you want to be the one to kill it.

You remember Sam and the girl he liked, how some of these things were people once upon a time, and you feel sorry for them. But you’ll still put your knives into them or a bullet in their brain.

In the laundromat, Dean startles you: he’s the nervous one. Sam’s watching you with an expression like he’s been waiting for this day.

All you can do is breathe.

The hunt’s chaos in the dark. They form a front line and you decide to flank it while they’ve got it distracted. You slice its arm with silver and when it reaches for you, it almost tears into your belly, but you instinctively turn, almost dropping your knife and it rakes claws across your back, white hot searing pain and you hold your scream before Dean puts a bullet in it. The werewolf lurches at you, those wild ice-blue eyes and a mouth full of sharp teeth; you haven’t let go of your knife (you didn’t let go); you stab it in the chest and you feel your blade catch its collarbone.

You remember it was human and then Sam shoots it in the head.

For good measure, you hold out your hand, ‘Sam, do ya mind,’ and it’s as if he can read your thoughts: he gives you his gun without question. He walks off to check on Dean (injured or not, it’s a ritual, their hands-on compulsion) and you point the gun and pull the trigger. Over and over. Your scream falls out of your throat like vomit.

At the motel, Dean says, ‘Alright, on your stomach.’ You flop on a bed; the blood’s been trailing into your jeans and you’re sticky, but it’s like sweat. You hurt every time you breathe, but you don’t care.

Dean’s touching carefully around the cuts on your back and he whistles. ‘Stitches.’

Sam crosses his arms and from what you can see, he looks pissed off, a black haunted veil over his eyes.

A dead werewolf. Scars. You’ve earned your stripes. In your blood.

You’re swigging whiskey (it burns almost as bad as the cuts) and you hear Dean cutting your shredded shirt; you tuck the front up under your underwire (you have comfy cotton bras and you’ve put tiny slits in them; if you can reach the underwires, you can slip them out and use them as half-assed lockpicks; they work more than half the time and it’s like having a weapon close to your body). The alcohol’s going straight to your head, like the adrenaline, and you think you’re humming, but you can’t tell until Dean says, ‘You’re gonna feel a pinch. Or a lot of them.’

The alcohol’s in your head; Dean stitches you up and Sam tells stories about some of the stupid stuff Dean’s done in the past; Dean keeps telling him to fuck off and you’re laughing as you feel the tug of the needle; Sam tells you not to worry about the scars, you can hide them and Dean says, ‘Show her your scar, Sammy,’ and he lifts his shirt, a long puckered scar low on his backbone; you’re getting drunk and you realize this is normalcy.

Two days later, you tell them you’re leaving. You’ve been with them for a few months now and that’s probably a few months too long. Especially for them; they don’t need any more baggage than what they’re already carrying (Sam claims there’s barely enough room in the car for him because of Dean’s fucking ego).

You know it when you’re in the bathtub, smoking a stolen cigarette and you hear them out in the room arguing.

‘It’s like picking up a stray kitten, feeding it, and then fucking dumping it three towns over,’ Dean asserts, ‘she’s gonna get herself killed.’

‘We taught her, Dean. We’ve survived,’ Sam says. ‘Look at Jo. Ellen.’

‘Yeah, but.’ Dean runs out of words, a miracle, and you hear a tapping, like a gun barrel on a table. You figured out as Sam checked your bandages earlier that he _was_ pissed; they’re wildly, insanely overprotective of each other, but they’re protective of you too and they let you get hurt. You wanted to tell him they didn’t _let_ you do anything ( _no one_ “lets” you do anything), but all you could do was say thanks, it’s okay, and you gave him a kiss on the cheek. And then Dean said, What, Sam gets all the chicks, with that hair? (They are still so blind.) So you gave him a kiss too and it felt like an early goodbye.

You tune them out and smoke and the water feels good; your body still aches and your back stings (scars, you can’t wait) and you don’t tune in again until you’re drying off, carefully getting dressed.

You stub out your cigarette and hover at the door to hear Sam say, ‘We can’t hold her, she’s eighteen – you know we basically kidnapped her in the _first place_ , you asshole; she isn’t a damn stray kitten. We can’t _keep_ her.’

‘Eighteen,’ Dean says, as if it’s a death sentence, then he says, ‘Yeah, at eighteen, you kinda do whatever you want.’

Sam says, ‘Dean, man. You know I—‘

‘But still—‘

‘She wants to go,’ Sam says and you crack the door open. They don’t notice you and Sam continues, his voice dropping deep, almost wobbling, deadly insistent, ‘And we have _other things_ to worry about. I can’t – I’m not letting you go down there, Dean. You – you only have five—‘ Dean attempts to shut him up, but Sam dodges his reach and grabs the little golden head resting on Dean’s chest. He gives a yank on it until their foreheads are touching. ‘You aren’t fucking going.’

You make noise, bustling about, and they break apart, but they don’t really talk for the rest of the night; the air is tense, so you just read. Dean announces he’s going to the bar and Sam doesn’t look at him and you know it’s really serious then. Sam reads too and you fall asleep before Dean comes back.

They want you to stay until the stitches can come out because you can reach the bandages, but you can’t take out the stitches and you aren’t going to argue with that logic. You can’t kill things if you’re all fucked up.

‘You aren’t gonna buy me a car?’ you ask, all wide eyes and angelic innocence and Dean groans and Sam smirks.

‘Fuck, did Sam teach you that face?’ Dean says and you retort, ‘This’s my face. I know how it works,’ and Sam laughs, clapping Dean on the shoulder.

‘She got you.’

‘Bite me.’

One morning (you’re counting down the days, just a few more now), Dean says, ‘Hop to it, school’s in session.’ Sam passes him a cup of coffee without looking away from his laptop and you say, ‘School?’

The only thing about school they’ve said to you is when Dean pulled you aside and told you to find a good-sized town, get a P.O. box, then take the GED online. It’s easier to get bullshit jobs and make money, he said, since you didn’t, uh, get a chance. To graduate.

‘School, Ruthie, that fucking dirty word,’ he says now. ‘Cars 101 is the class and I’m your professor.’

Sam snorts and Dean points a finger at him, ‘You shut your face, Sammy,’ and Sam holds his hands up in surrender, ‘I didn’t say a single word.’

‘Yeah, make sure you don’t.’

Dean pops the hood on the Chevy and he dives right in: everything you need to know about an engine and repairs therein. Sam stands by, agitated, and he jumps in occasionally, except sometimes when he talks, it ends like a question and Dean either nods or corrects him; it’s like a double lesson, or a refresher course, you’re not sure, but Sam seems so disheartened; he’s doing a terrible job of hiding it.

Later, you find a thumb drive on top of your latest book and Sam quietly tells you it’s a general car guide.

Stitches out, everything healing nicely, according to Dr. Winchester and Dr. Winchester (Dean said, You’re the nurse, Sammy, so _try_ to act sexy) and you whisper to Dean that Dr. Sexy couldn’t’ve done a better job, even with his magical-medical cowboy boots. He practically glows, he’s holding his laughter in, but then he shoots daggers at you, shush, because Sam’s in the room, calling out, ‘Dean, why’re you choking?’

You thump him on the back and he fake coughs.

They make IDs for you; ‘Bobby can give you better ones,’ Sam says and he gives you a small stack of cards and some cash in a backpack with a ton of pockets. ‘Backpacks are handy,’ he says sheepishly and you grin and he grins back, all dimples.

You get a crash course in stealing cars when they steal a car for you. You wanted a pickup (the lone girl in the pickup, ready to roll over anything, that’s your dream), but Dean says, ‘Believe me, Ruthie, you want a trunk. And a backseat.’

Sam glowers at him, with his lips twisted. ‘You’re a sleaze,’ he says and Dean’s mouth drops open.

‘I’m _shocked_ , Sam, at what you’re suggesting in front of the lady,’ Dean insists and Sam sighs at him.

It’s night when you’ve packed your new car (beggars can’t be choosers) and fuck, you realize this is goodbye. They’ve done so much for you and you don’t know what to do.

You hug them and breathe in their scents and you’re going out into the world alone without these two giants to protect you. But you’re not the Ruthie Marks you used to be. You’ve got scars. All kinds. (You don’t have a heart.)

You climb behind the wheel, close the door, then Dean taps on your window. When you roll it down, he reaches in and deposits a cell phone in your hand. ‘Sam put our numbers in here. So you call us. Anytime. You _ever_ need anything.’

He’s so serious, like that first night when he knelt by you, his eyes intensely green and he’s still holding your fist. ‘The first thing you do is you call Bobby – his number’s in there too – tell him we sent you. Then you go see him and he’ll help you out.’

Sam crowds by Dean and those changing-color eyes are serious too. ‘Stay safe, Ruthie. If you need–‘

You nod and you aren’t crying, but maybe you are.

Dean says, ‘Get another gun. I mean it. Guns.’ (After he says that, you always carry a gun, no matter how many knives you’ve got stashed on you.)

Then he hits the roof of the car and you put it in drive.

You see them in the red wash of your taillights. You’ll never forget how they stand, so tall like they’ll break the world, together, side-by-side.

You’ll never forget the color of their eyes.

Out on the road, cruise set at 80, you work out how you can thank them, because saying it over and over wasn’t enough.

You’ll kill every motherfucking evil son of a bitch you can find.

You’ve got the Winchesters' backs in any fight.

It’s the least you can do.

-

You can’t seem to get away from them. You never really left them. (Larger-than-life.)

You call Bobby and you say exactly what Dean said, ‘Sam and Dean told me to call.’ The man on the other end is gruff, older; his voice reminds you of the guy down at the scrap yard in your hometown (and you’re reminded you thought that about Sam and Dean too), all rough and prickly around the edges, but he was always nice to you.

‘Them damn Winchesters. Y’know, they always wanted a puppy,’ Bobby says and you laugh. ‘Here’s the address. Hustle your way up here.’

‘Yes, sir,’ you say and Bobby harrumphs. ‘You don’t gotta call me sir ‘less you’ve done somethin’ wrong. Wait, Dean didn’t tell ya to call me ‘sir,’ did he? I’ll throttle him.’

‘No,’ you say, watching the moon through your windshield. ‘But he did say I needed another gun.’

Bobby coughs in something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

When you arrive, he looks gobsmacked. ‘Oh balls,’ he says, tugging at his cap. ‘They didn’t tell me you were so,‘ he waves a hand at you, ‘young.’

You say, ‘Eighteen,’ and Bobby cusses under his breath, but he invites you in. He gives you a Dr. Pepper (he said, I gave those boys alcohol when they were minors and look how that turned out) and watches you take a swig, then invites you into his living room. There’s a huge trap on the ceiling and books everywhere and you like Bobby immediately.

You only stay a day and a half, but you learn more than you ever imagined. And he gives you another gun and drives you to get a laptop. ‘Sam’s attached at the arms to his.’

He gives you the same speech when you leave, except he says, ‘If it’s somethin' weird out there – well, if it’s just _somethin'_ , you call me first. Those boys’ll only get it all turned around.’

You smirk; you really, really like Bobby.

‘You’ll be okay, Ruthie,’ he says. ‘Those idjits, I’m sure they taught you fine.’

You stick to easy hunts to begin with because it’s a _bitch_ doing this by yourself. You gleaned that at one point in time, Dean hunted alone (you didn’t ask where Sam was, it didn’t seem to be a good idea) and he’s bigger than you, experienced, but you still imagine it sucked so much. It’s hard digging a grave by yourself and when you get back to the motel, you’re alone, smelling like smoke and salt.

When you dig, you hear Dean in your head, singing, or Sam talking about lore and the French Revolution. When you pull a trigger, you feel Sam’s hands on your arms, adjusting your aim and Dean saying, Get ready, it’ll push at you. Just breathe and squeeze. When you throw a matchbook, you think of Dean crowing, How’s that, you ugly bastard, like that don’t you, as Sam gathers the shovels and says, Dean, stop yelling at the dead, you’re only gonna piss ‘em off and then we’ll have a zombie apocalypse on our hands and I might just let ‘em have you.

You salt the doors and windows: careful you don’t break the line, Ruthie, they’ll take any opening. The first few weeks, you hardly sleep. You’re _alone_.

One day you break a finger frantically shoving a hex bag into a hole and you feel Dean’s touch as you set the bone, sweating in pain, and it’s as if Sam’s there wrapping the splints, giving you three aspirin.

They’re your ghosts. Not like May. She’s why you get out of bed.

By accident, by pure fucking accident, you learn not to hunt during the first few days of your period; the new blood attracts too much unwanted attention and that’s certainly something the boys didn’t think to teach you. You sigh when you make a mental note to tell them when you see them, but then you scratch that thought away.

In your travels, you meet a woman named Ellen you’ve heard about (you actually hear word now from other hunters you cross knives with at jobs until they decide you’re okay, regardless of your age). She leans against a barstool and says, ‘You don’t look like a hunter, honey.’ Her voice is so motherly and she smiles at you.

‘I learned from the best,’ you say, bragging, spinning your balisong in the water on the bar.

Her smile grows. ‘Who’s that.’

‘The Winchesters.’

The name’s like a magic key of sorts; you discovered this because it gets a whole hell of a range of reactions, so you like to keep it to yourself most of the time, though you have gotten into a few fights when someone opens their fool mouth and you’re only happy to shut it for them. But Ellen’s good people, so you feel safe.

And she laughs. ‘Oh hell, honey, those boys taught you?’ She shakes her head and gives you a free drink on the house, ‘even if you are too young.’

You hunt, but you still haven’t found your heart.

Five months later, you hear Dean died. You try to call Sam, but he doesn’t answer. You don’t call again. It really breaks you; that cocky grin gone and those eyes, green lost forever.

You smoke in the tub and cry so hard, you choke and almost vomit. (This job is so fucking dangerous it can hardly be called a life, but you never thought – those two are so big, take up so much space and light in the world, they can’t die. Not them.)

You keep on keepin’ on though. You figure you’ll die young and bloody too. You watch Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. You want to get a tattoo. _You’re gonna die bloody, and all you can choose is where._

Some towns, you think you see that black car with the shining grin grill prowling the streets. You think of Sam alone and that breaks you clean the rest of the way.

You learned that all this killing won’t help you get May back so you can make homemade play-doh with her, but you can’t imagine how Sam is surviving.

Word gets to you that he’s still alive and you’re not sure how.

You hunt. You ask a random demon about the dead and then you exorcise it before it can keep talking.

-

Six months after you mourned for Dean and Sam, you see them outside a diner. Alive. Both of them.

They’re standing by the Chevy, black gleaming pretty in the sunshine and they’re talking, using their hands, just like you remember. You park across the street to watch, otherwise you might crash your car.

You’re hearing about heavy shit going down in the world, an apocalypse maybe, Armageddon, demonic activity has shot up through the roof. You’ve run into some damn freaky stuff lately. But right here, right now, they talk and touch and, as you live and breathe, they rock-paper-scissors, like fourth graders. Dean throws scissors; Sam wins with rock.

Everything could be going to hell in a pretty little purple handbasket with fancy lacy bows, but Sam still wins with rock.

You feel your pieces start to slip back together.

They stand, so tall like they’ll break the world, together, side-by-side.

(You’ll never forget the color of their eyes.)

Dean says something and Sam laughs, shaking his head. You can hear it: you’re such a little bitch; oh, bite me, jerk.

Sam kind of folds that long body into Dean’s side and Dean gets an arm around his shoulders, pulling his brother sideways, burying his face in Sam’s throat. Then they walk into the diner. You don’t want to cry again, so you drive away. You don’t stop until you’re across the state line.

You book your motel room, get your gear inside, order a pizza, turn on the TV. Then you crawl onto the bed and clean your weapons. Sharpen your knives.

Sam’s hands holding the whetstone. (You bought a sickle.) Dean’s fingers covered in gun oil. (You’ve got a pair of shotguns.)

Their eyes speaking to each other, saying things you won’t ever get to understand in your lifetime.

You ache just remembering.

You miss your little sister. You paint your toenails. You hug your pillow and watch Empire Strikes Back. It’s Thanksgiving and you didn’t even know.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment at my [Livejournal](http://huntersarchives.livejournal.com/64400.html) if you wish. <3


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